Sunlight, a brutal mockery, claws its way through the gap in the curtains. Did I die? Last night's agony – Thomas's fists, a symphony of bone-shattering percussion – still echoes in the marrow of my bones. The stench of mildew and despair is gone, replaced by the sterile, almost cloying sweetness of antiseptic. This isn't the damp chill of that cell; this is… softness. Silk, perhaps. A warmth seeps into my ravaged flesh, a cruel irony. The rhythmic *beep… beep… beep* of the machine – a mechanical metronome counting down my remaining moments? – snags my attention. A heart monitor. My eyes, still blurry with the residue of nightmare, trace the line of the IV snaking into my arm, a pale serpent feeding me life. A bitter laugh rips through me, a sound choked with disbelief and incandescent rage. *Saved me,* they think. Fools. They've merely bought themselves more time. More opportunities to break me. They haven't defeated me; they've only postponed the inevitable. This respite is nothing but a prelude to a far worse torment. The taste of blood – my own, I think – lingers on my tongue, metallic and defiant.
I hear voices – a woman's voice, sharp and insistent, saying, "She's awake, Alpha." The pounding in my head is a physical manifestation of the terror clawing at my insides. I sit up, groaning, the pain a white-hot explosion behind my eyes. The tallest man, a brute even from this blurry perspective, lunges toward me, I flinch, my head cracking against the headboard with a sickening thud. Tears well, blurring my vision further. The woman steps between us, her voice a soothing balm against the raw fear that grips me. "Gently," she hisses at the man, "Let me check her." But the gentleness is a lie, I know it. Her eyes, when I can focus, hold a predatory gleam. He growls – a low, guttural sound that vibrates in my chest – and the primal instinct to shrink, to disappear, overwhelms me. I curl into a ball, hugging my knees, wishing I could melt into the mattress. Part of me screams to fight, to run, to defy them. But another, stronger, more ingrained part whispers of obedience, of survival at any cost. This is where the choice comes: fight and likely fail, bringing pain, maybe death, upon myself, or submit, and potentially betray everything I believe in. The woman's supposed kindness feels like a trap, a manipulation designed to disarm me before the true brutality begins. To survive, do I give up my integrity? Do I let them win? The thought is bitter poison, choking the breath from my lungs. Even worse, a chilling possibility emerges: maybe obedience is my only hope, and maybe, just maybe, I've already been tainted. The inner battle rages, a silent scream against the throbbing pain in my skull, a war against the horrifying realization that I may willingly choose my own subjugation.
"Royal Pack," the words sliced through my throbbing skull like shards of ice. Doctor Amelia. *A Royal doctor*? The sterile scent of antiseptic warred with the metallic tang of blood in my mouth, a coppery taste that mirrored the frantic hammering in my temples. Pain, a searing white-hot agony, ripped through my head, blurring the edges of reality. Her words, clipped and precise, were barely audible above the roaring in my ears: "Your head will heal, but rest is paramount." The prick of the needle in my IV was a brutal intrusion, a violation even as the promised relief flooded my system, a chilling wave of numbness washing over the fire. Then, *them*. The first… a god. Six-four, minimum. A mountain of sculpted muscle, broad shoulders straining against the crisp white of his uniform. His black hair, a tempest of unruly curls, framed a face that could launch a thousand ships – or shatter them. Sky-blue eyes, the color of a summer storm, held mine captive, a warm smile playing on his lips that felt like a deliberate, dangerous seduction. I knew the charm was a facade, a predator's mask, but the raw power emanating from him was intoxicating, terrifying. Carter. Alpha`s Beta The name was spoken with a reverence that sent a shiver down my spine. Brown hair, the color of rich earth, framed eyes the same deep brown. His smile, though equally warm, held a different weight, an almost unsettling calmness that belied the authority simmering beneath the surface. He was the quiet storm, the steady hand guiding the tempest. My mind, still reeling from the impact, struggled to comprehend the implications. Royal doctor. A breathtakingly dangerous man. The Alpha`s Beta. My survival, it seemed, rested precariously on the whims of these three figures, their motives as shrouded in mystery as the shadows lurking in the corners of the sterile white room. The air itself thrummed with unspoken power, a tension that threatened to crack the very silence.
The doctor's words echoed in my ears – *eat more*. My ribs, sharp beneath paper-thin skin, seemed to mock the suggestion. The meager food I'd managed felt like sawdust in my gut. My wolf, usually a roaring furnace of healing magic, was a flickering ember, barely glowing. She knew. She *saw* the exhaustion etched into my bones. My head lolled, the gesture a confession. My hands, trembling, traced the faint scars on my palms. Then, a blinding white-hot pain—the concussion's cruel reminder—ripped through my skull. A strong hand, impossibly gentle, cupped my chin, tilting my face upward. A jolt, like icy lightning, arced from his touch, settling in my bones. The Alpha King. His gaze, the color of a winter storm, pinned me. "A queen," his voice, low and resonant as a church bell, rumbled, "never looks down." Heat flooded my cheeks, a crimson tide. Not just the compliment, but *his* touch – the weight of his hand, the faint scent of pine and snow clinging to him – stole my breath. Trust, raw and urgent, thrummed in my veins, a desperate pull towards him. But caution, a cold serpent, coiled around my heart, whispering warnings I couldn't ignore.
The rap on the door vibrated through the floorboards, a prelude to the icy intrusion of Beta Thomas and Jennifer. Their presence, a chilling wave of perfume and stale fear, washed over me. My fingers clenched around the Alpha King's shirt – rough linen, smelling faintly of woodsmoke and something darker, something feral – a desperate, instinctive grab for purchase as terror slammed into me. I tried to rise, my muscles screaming in protest against another beating, a phantom ache already blooming in my bruised ribs. The Alpha King, a mountain of shadowed muscle and simmering power, didn't even glance at them. His gaze, a molten gold burning through me, held me captive. His touch, a searing brand against my own, settled over my hand, a paradoxical comfort within the suffocating dread. His voice, a low growl that scraped against my bones, cut through the air. "What!" Jennifer, her face a carefully constructed mask of subservience that couldn't quite hide the simmering resentment in her eyes, squeaked, "Dinner is ready, Alpha." A cruel smile – a flash of teeth, predatory and sharp – played on his lips. "We will eat in *my* room," he purred, the words dripping with possessive menace. His voice deepened, a guttural rumble that vibrated the very air. "Make sure *my* mate has plenty. Plenty." The final word hung in the air, a growl laced with barely-concealed threat. The unspoken promise of violence, of brutal punishment should anyone dare to fail him, coiled in the silence that followed.
A laden tray appeared, its weight hinting at the feast within. The Alpha King, flanked by two others, gestured for me to join them. The television flickered to life, a muted blur of conversation washing over me—words I couldn't quite grasp. The food—rich, unfamiliar—was exquisite. But my stomach, unused to such indulgence, rebelled. I managed only a few bites before pushing the plate away. The doctor, her voice a calm counterpoint to the king's deep rumble, explained to him, "It will take time for her system to adjust." Her gaze, kind and assessing, lingered on me. The medication she'd prescribed was already easing the throbbing in my head, a welcome relief. The need to use the bathroom arrived, a sharp pang. The doctor's offer of a bath surprised me; a bath. A real bath. Years had passed since I'd known such luxury. My lips curved into a silent affirmation. Warmth enveloped me as the water filled the tub, scented with something floral and deeply soothing. Clean underwear and a soft shirt lay on the counter, fresh and inviting. The bath itself was a cleansing ritual, washing away not only the grime but also the residue of hardship. Emerging, wrapped in the towel, I pulled on the shirt—a man's shirt, enormous and soft against my skin. The scent—a clean, sharp musk—was undeniably *his*. The Alpha King's. A quick glance back at the bathroom, a silent question hanging in the air. The room was strangely empty. Carter and Amelia were gone. Only the king remained, watching me. His eyes seemed to absorb my hesitations. "The doctor gave you my shirt," he said, his voice a low murmur, "Is it alright?" A simple observation, yet so considerate and unexpectedly soft. He continued, "They've gone to bed. Would you like to watch a movie?" My nod was enough. I sank into the plush couch, the plush leather cool beneath me, and watched as he settled beside me. The silence between us was comfortable, the light from the screen illuminating his face—strong, kind, surprisingly gentle.